We move from one knock-down game to another. No one ever loses, and therefore we can’t play. No matter. I’ve lost the desire.

*   *   *

Back in the cabin, Dolly brags about how she won a huge purple teddy bear. Sara and I say nothing. We don’t intend to spoil anyone’s fun. It seems that everyone had a good time. Maybe they didn’t notice that the games were rigged, or didn’t care. They all feel like winners.

When the games are rigged, does it make everyone a winner—or no one? All I know is that I don’t feel much like a winner. But I don’t feel like a loser either. That’s something. It is better that I didn’t get with the program this time. I believe in competition. The program seems to say that handicapped people aren’t up to it; we can only pretend to be winners. I don’t want to pretend. I want to achieve, really achieve. Or I will take my disappointments just like anyone else.

Day Seven

Day Seven

Equilibrium is the apparent stasis that results from a dynamic process, the product of forces acting with equal strength in opposite directions.

Soon camp will be over, and my camera hasn’t moved from the ledge where I dropped it that first day. On my way out, I grab it. The screen door slaps behind me, and my casters thud across the gangway.

Outside, Margie is taking towels off the clothesline.

I hold up my camera. “Carole,” I say and nod toward Margie.

Carole looks through the viewfinder, ready to snap.

“Wait.” I see the photo in my mind. It’s dark shade, but if I’m lucky, it will be good. Gentle light on Margie’s dark chocolate face. Focus sharp on the nap of the blue towels. In the background, a blur of green and brown vegetation. “Set that lit-tle button, yep, on three. Now move to the left. Not so much. Get the yel-low tow-el in the mid-dle.” My voice gets high and squeaky. “Mar-gie, smile.”

Margie bends her head toward the clothespin she cradles in her hand and then glances up with her shy smile. The shutter clicks. I can see how the photo will look in my album. When my folks flip to that page, they’ll probably ask, “What’s wrong with the colored girl?” I’ll have to tell them Margie is mentally retarded. Mildly. For a second, I wish, for Margie’s sake, that I hadn’t taken the picture. But then, my folks ought to know about her. How nice she is. How helpful. I can make them understand. I think I’ll use up the whole roll of film.